


Mistletoe

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Whitechapel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The office Christmas party gives Kent the chance to tell how Chandler how he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diagon/gifts).



"Ooh, nice! Sir, suits you, sir!"

Kent fixes on a grin as women surround him. They flutter, stroking his lapels and over his chest, their touches light but with intent. He can see it in their eyes, hard flirtation hidden behind jovial banter, the office girls already half-cut on half-price drinks and his female colleagues more sober but no less determined.

The Christmas party is in full swing. Someone had the bright idea of hiring out a Mexican-themed restaurant, and the cheerful yellow walls are festooned with tinsel. Sprigs of mistletoe tied with red ribbon dangle from the roof, offering temptation with every other step. Instead of a Christmas tree, there's a large plastic cactus with baubles hanging haphazardly from its dull spikes.

"Can I get you a drink, love?"

Before he can answer, a glass of sangria is shoved into his hand. Kent takes an obedient sip and tries not to grimace at the scouring taste of the cheap red wine. He fishes out a segment of satsuma and eats it.

"Come and sit over here." The girls crowd him, chattering like a flock of starlings as they edge him towards a booth table. They keep patting his new suit, and though Kent is proud of it--cost him three months' wages, after all--he's feeling uncomfortable with the amount of attention he's getting.

"Cor, I love a man in a nice suit," one of the girls tells him. "Makes you look really fit, don't it?"

Kent self-consciously smoothes down the front of the jacket. "Thank you."

"You've been different since the new boss-man came," the girl continues. "You're making a real effort these days. Copying the guv, I suppose, but there's nowt wrong with that. Our man looks really stylin', don't he, girls?"

"I prefer the guv, meself," her friend says loudly. "Blond and handsome--you can't go wrong with that."

Another glass of sangria is plonked on the table in front of him. Because he's got nothing else to do, Kent drinks it and keeps smiling while the women around him shrill and giggle and pet him.

Miles passes by on the way to the bar. "Out of yer depth, lad?"

The girls shriek with laughter, pushing and pulling Kent between them. "Get away, Skip! He's all ours!"

Kent smiles nervously. He's faced worse ordeals. He can cope with being mauled by a few drunken women, even when one of them produces one of the sprigs of mistletoe and kisses him wetly on the cheek.

The women roar with laughter. He touches his face, feeling the waxy imprint of lipstick. Before he can say anything, another two girls kiss him. He turns his head before any of them can aim for his mouth, but it seems they're too drunk to care one way or the other.

A few strangled bars of a festive tune blare out as the restaurant door opens to admit McCormack and his wife. A couple of the girls jump up to greet them, and Kent seizes the opportunity to escape from the booth. One of the women clings to his arm, but he shakes her off gently. "I need to clean up," he explains, pointing to his face.

"Hurry back," she says, giving him what he thinks is meant to be a seductive wink.

Kent smiles politely and hurries away, weaving through the press of people at the bar. There's mistletoe everywhere. Even in the gents' lavs there's a sprig of the stuff hanging over the door. He snorts and shakes his head at whoever thought it'd be a good idea to stick mistletoe in the bogs.

The place is empty, so he takes a piss and tucks himself away carefully. His suit is new and expensive but his pants are plain old M&amp;S tighty-whities. The contrast would probably disappoint the girls who were cooing over him earlier, but he hopes it wouldn't disappoint DI Chandler.

_Joe._

Kent zips his flies and goes over to the washbasins. He stares at his reflection, frowning at the smatter and smear of different lipsticks and lip glosses on his face. Grabbing a paper towel, he dips one end into the lukewarm water from the hot tap and rubs at his skin. A vivid scarlet lipstick is particularly difficult to remove, so he dabs liquid soap over the kiss mark and tries again.

His face is pink, the skin sharp and tingling from the force of his scrubbing. Kent presses his knuckles against his clean flesh then throws the paper towel towards the bin. It bounces on the rim and rolls across the floor. With a sigh, he goes to retrieve it.

The door opens behind him and Chandler walks in.

Kent straightens immediately, hands self-consciously going to his tie and then to his hair. He realises he's preening and forces himself to stop. Instead, he fiddles with his cuffs and tries to think of something clever to say.

Chandler doesn't seem to notice him at first. His face is pale and his eyes shadowed as he hunches over one of the basins and feels around in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a small pot of tiger balm and opens it with shaking hands.

He must have a bad headache, Kent thinks. Chandler is prone to them, even when they don't have nightmarish cases like the copycat Ripper or mad East End gangster families to deal with. Chandler has headaches the way most people have hot dinners, and Kent wishes he could be the one to soothe them away.

Chandler smears the tiger balm onto his fingertips and rubs little circles over his temples. His eyes close and he gives a deep, needy sigh.

Kent draws in a silent breath. He shouldn't find the sound arousing, but he does. Even the sight of his boss with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, his blond hair dishevelled and the glisten of misted rain across the broad shoulders of his fine woollen coat is enough to make Kent's belly twist with hopeless desire.

He's wanted Chandler--Joe--for ages, but he's never had the guts to do anything about it. Now, with the kick of cheap sangria rioting through his blood, he thinks he might just test the waters. Just a bit. Nothing too obvious. Just to see what might happen.

He clears his throat.

Chandler opens his eyes and smiles at him in the mirror. "Hello, Kent." He puts the lid back on the tiger balm and slips it into his pocket, then runs the hot and cold taps together and starts to wash his hands with methodical attention.

Kent scrabbles for a topic of conversation. The weather, he thinks as he stares again at Chandler's coat. No, too boring. Anxiety makes him blurt out something stupid: "Who told you about that, sir? The tiger balm, I mean."

His expression slightly startled, Chandler lifts his head and meets Kent's gaze again in the mirror. "Oh... a friend." A faint hint of colour touches his cheeks. "An old friend from university."

Even though he knows he should drop it, Kent can't stop himself. His tongue seems to want to wag endlessly. "Would that be a male friend, sir?"

The taps are turned off, and Chandler flicks his hands into the sink. He turns and gives Kent a cool look. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Blushing, Kent drops his gaze and mumbles, "Nothing, sir. Just wondered. It's a bit... you know."

Chandler frowns, puzzlement giving way to annoyance. "No, I don't know. What exactly are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything, sir! I... Shit. Sorry, sir. Bit drunk, I think."

"You've hardly touched a drop." Chandler stops, his expression undergoing a subtle change as if he realises what he just gave away with that statement.

Kent feels a shock of pleasure. "You've been watching me?"

"I happened to notice you through the window earlier." Chandler shifts uneasily, pushing away from the sink. "You're a police officer. Aren't you trained to be observant?"

"Yes sir, but not when I'm off duty with my mates."

Chandler passes him and takes a paper towel. He keeps his gaze fixed on his hands as he dries them finger by finger. "You should always be observant. Always be aware." He balls the towel and tosses it into the bin, then starts to walk away.

"Sir..."

Chandler turns, his eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

Kent hesitates. He has to say it now. "I like you, sir."

As soon as the truth is out he winces inwardly, wishing he could take it back. Then he straightens his spine and brushes at his suit, calling attention to its cut and fabric. Expensive. Classy. Discreet. That's what he is now, what he wants to be, and if he's those things, if he can believe he's those things, then maybe Joe will want him.

It seems to take Chandler a long time to reply. "I know," he says at last.

"You do?"

"Yes." He offers a small, sympathetic smile. "I think the others have noticed, too."

Kent shuffles his feet. "They're just joshin', sir."

"Are they?" Chandler puts his head to one side and lets the question hang in the air between them.

The silence grows thick with embarrassment and tension. Kent tries to turn the situation back to his advantage. "Well, sir?"

Another small frown. "I'm sorry?"

His face is aflame, but Kent manages to muddle through his words: "When someone tells someone else they like them, it's usually good manners to say something about it."

Realisation lights Chandler's expression. He draws in a breath then exhales slowly. "I can't tell you what you want to hear."

"You don't know what I want to hear."

"Granted, no, I don't." He pauses, says, "I..." and hesitates again. Uncertainty flits across his face. Finally he says, "It wouldn't work. Even if it was possible and there was no insinuation of sexual harassment, it wouldn't work."

"Sexual harassment?" Kent is incredulous. "Isn't that to protect the girls?"

Chandler gives him a faint smile. "And the boys."

"Sir. It's not like that."

"I know." He rubs at his temples, his fingers drawing through his hair. "I like you, too. But that's the end of it. There can be nothing more, understand?"

Kent swallows the rejection. "Yes, sir."

"And it's got nothing to do with rank or political correctness. It's just..."

"Just what?"

Chandler shakes his head. "It's just impossible for me now."

Kent realises this isn't about him. Sadness settles around them, and he realises Chandler's smile is strained and melancholy. No, it's not about him at all, and Kent mourns the 'what ifs' and 'maybes' even as he breathes out with relief. He's wanted an answer, any answer, for months now, and now he's got it, he feels light-hearted and free.  
Without speaking, they leave the washbasins and walk towards the door together. Chandler reaches for the handle then pauses, his attention caught by the mistletoe hanging above them. He looks at it for a moment, then flicks his gaze down to Kent.

Kent's heart stops beating for a second. A rush of excitement and hope fills him. He's scarcely aware of moving closer, lifting his head for a kiss he knows will never come.

"The mistletoe." Chandler catches hold of it, pulling it from the red ribbon. He twists it between thumb and forefinger. "Look."

Kent looks. "What about it?"

"It's not real." Chandler lets it go, and the sprig bounces onto the floor. They stare at the mistletoe for a moment, then step over it and go out to rejoin the party.


End file.
